


Into the Wilds

by leakypaintpen



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leakypaintpen/pseuds/leakypaintpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - Ser Alistair, Templar of the Circle Tower, is sent into the Korcari Wilds on a search for Chasind apostates. What he finds is not what he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt at the DA Kinkmeme. Don't think I'll ever be satisfied with this, particularly with the way it ends, but I'm too lazy to rethink the plot after several months of letting this gather dust. So, here it is. Many thanks to drakontion for the beta.

_Squish squelch squish squelch._

They'd been trudging for what seemed like an eternity in this awful, foggy cold that seeped through all his layers of woolens and settled into his muscles, making every step in his sodden boots even more difficult. One would think that with the pace Halbert was forcing, he'd be warm and steaming, limbs loosened, but somehow no amount of exertion could dislodge this damned chill.  
  
"We're lost, aren't we," Alistair grumbled under his breath. Surely Jogby's camp hadn't been that far from the Chasind village they'd left at dawn yesterday. The four of them should have reached it several hours ago, at midmorning.  
  
"What was that you said, Alistair? You wanted to carry my pack?" Halbert called out from a few paces ahead of him.  
  
"No, ser. Just remarking on the weather, ser." Alistair swallowed.  
  
"Is that so. Sounded to me like you don't have enough to carry."  
  
"Not at all, ser. I was… merely appreciating how the, ah, fog graces the trees." Just ahead of him Rood and Kenrik snorted.  
  
"Then keep your appreciation quiet. That goes for the rest of you as well," Halbert barked.  
  
"Yes, ser."  
  
 _Squish squelch SPLISH squelch_. Damnit, he hadn't seen that puddle and now his left boot was even soggier.  
  
To be fair, despite all his grousing about yet another of Knight-Captain Tarven's "supply runs" out in the dismal swampy Wilds, with testy Templars for company during the day and a thin bedroll that didn't keep him from freezing at night, Alistair could find a lot to appreciate. He wasn't dressed as a tin can, standing for hours on end and staring at unhappy people who could singe off his eyebrows with a stray thought. He wasn't watching anyone undergo a Harrowing. He wasn't exactly free to frolic, but in the woods, no one would notice that most of his lyrium tended to miss his gullet (even a long sip gave him blinding headaches for a day – how could Carroll down that stuff like small beer?). Best of all, Tarven himself never came out here, giving him a golden few weeks free of constant cutting remarks and punishments for minor infractions.  
  
Why did Tarven hate him so much, anyway? Was it something he'd said in the barracks about the good captain's hair? Or maybe he'd snagged the last bit of Redcliffe cheddar on the cheese board before the smug prick could claim it, long ago in the monastery. Whatever his sins, one thing was certain, and that was the man had it in for him.  
  
After all, nothing but spite could have gotten Alistair regularly sent on the apostate-finding missions that were Tarven's pet project. The knight-captain was forever buttering up for a promotion, and at the Denerim tournament (that Alistair should have been in, but no, he got blamed for sticking coppers in Ser Glavin's door jamb – as if he'd waste good coin on that man – and lucky Eryhn got recruited as a Grey Warden) this little idea of his had so delighted the Grand Cleric that Her Grace gave Tarven full blessing to proceed – and a new rank.  
  
Alright, so the scheme had some merit, if nabbing more Chasind children and hedge healers was one's idea of a good time. Missionaries scattered throughout the Korcari Wilds risked life and limb to enlighten heathens with the Chant but had no easy means to resupply or send letters and updates. To support those brave souls, could not the Chantry provide regular aid from its bountiful tithes? If some Templars happened to accompany these goods, and the missionaries happened to mention locations that might harbor apostates or latent talent, well, that'd just be lucky happenstance, wouldn't it? Even better, these same Templars could demonstrate the Maker's mercy and distribute extra poultices and clothing in impoverished villages – while clad in unassuming leather and splint, of course, no need to panic anyone with blinding bright plate. Were dangerous undercurrents of power detected, why, they'd only be fulfilling their sacred oath to protect innocents by rounding up culprits. It was a good plan, and simple, Alistair grudgingly admitted.  
  
And it was a plan that gnawed at his soul. However, as much as he despised himself for adding glory to Tarven's name with each ugly success, better he be present, and soften blows or offer hollow assurances of a comfortable future, than someone Tarven actually liked. No doubt the more ruthless of his colleagues mocked his softness before the captain, who relished Alistair's fruitless self-torture in addition to his physical discomfort, so it was no surprise when the slimy bastard named him for this detail again, his sixth in as many months.  
  
Their latest excursion had been proceeding as usual. Although rumors abounded of darkspawn gathering in the Wilds, the missionary, Jogby, had assured them there'd been no sightings of the twisted things and happily pointed to three settlements on his scrawled doodle of a map. So they'd visited the places, three of them doling out blessings and poultices to grim Chasind while a fourth – usually Alistair, the most sensitive of the group – stood guard and probed for subtle, recent disturbances in the Fade. So far they'd turned up no signs of magic, though close to Jogby's camp there'd been a couple of times Alistair had felt something…odd.  
  
Such as right now.  
  
"Wait, do you sense that?" he asked no one in particular, pausing in his steps.  
  
"Sense what?" said Rood.  
  
"I'm…not sure how to describe it. You really didn't feel anything a moment ago?"  
  
"Alistair, if you're going to be spooked by your own shadow, save that nonsense for when we're back at camp," snapped Halbert.  
  
"I don't spook, and it's not nonsense," Alistair protested. "I swear there was something. Even felt it a few times before. Maybe it's wild magic -"  
  
Rood snorted. "Or maybe you're just a little girl who still believes your Nan's stories." He made a face as if to spit something unpleasant. "Wild magic. If there were truly witches in these wilds, we'd 've heard from other Templars. Besides, I haven't noticed anything unusual while marching. Kenrik?"  
  
The other man shook his head. "Nothing. Nor during the last few times I was here." "Though there has been this high-pitched whine. Oh wait, that's you, Alistair," Rood smirked.  
  
An irritable growl from Halbert stopped Alistair before he could form a retort. "If you ladies have finished with your afternoon salon, then I suggest you quit standing around and get moving again. And for love of the Maker, remain quiet until we've reached camp," Halbert ordered, already a short distance ahead.  
  
"If we reach camp," Alistair muttered as he and the others lengthened their strides.  
  
"I heard that. Latrine duty, Alistair. And you two louts will be joining him if you don't shut up as well."  
  
Restored, the silence in the swamp stayed unbroken, save for the tread of heavy boots through muck and brush, and the flutter of wings high in the trees.

* * *

 

As it turned out, that stubborn git Halbert did nearly get them lost. He'd missed a trail sign and led them too far south before he gave up and backtracked, and consequently it was well past dark when the four Templars stumbled into camp.  
  
"Who better to lead us through the woods than a half-blind badger," Alistair said under his breath as he tried to dry his boots and feet by the sullen, smoky fire, while working his way through a trencher full of stew. "Mmm yes, what an excellent ide – Oww." Alistair rubbed at his cheek with a scowl. Whoever had prepared the textureless grey meat in the stew hadn't been all that careful; he'd nearly lost a tooth biting down on a sharp sliver of bone.  
  
It was late enough now that almost everyone had settled down for the night. Those who had first watch were still up, oiling and cleaning armor or quaffing rapidly cooling drinks, but none of them looked much like conversing. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair spied Halbert's glare.  
  
"Ah well, nothing like latrine duty to warm the spirit and the nose," Alistair sighed to himself as he stood up with a stretch. Might as well get it over with before doffing and cleaning his splintmail. At least the cold would dull the smell some. He grabbed a shortsword and torch as he trotted off; no telling what lurked out there, and the makeshift pit toilets were farther from the fire than he felt comfortable with tonight.  
  
Alistair tried to keep himself from shivering. Not that he was spooked – okay, maybe a little spooked – but he couldn't shake off the unease that had dogged him all afternoon and evening. After his first mention of it, he'd gotten that strange feeling twice again – he still suspected some kind of magic, the way it tickled the back of his tongue. More troubling, though, was that prickling on his neck hairs, like something was watching, and not something nice.  
  
Or maybe he was just turning into a drooling lunatic. Maker, at this rate he really wasn't going to last long as a Templar.  
  
He was about to dig a fresh pit after carefully covering up one that was starting to overflow when his torch went out, and a cry arose from the direction of the fire.  
  
"What in the Maker's – DARKSPAWN! DARKSPAWN ATTACK! GET UP GET –"  
  
Before Alistair could react, guttural laughter erupted next to him and pain exploded across his back. He cried out, smashing face down into the wet earth, but managed to roll to the side just in time to avoid a second swing of a mace. He scrambled to his feet and drew his sword, panic rising from his stomach as he frantically searched the darkness and prayed he was turning in the right direction.  
  
He felt a whoosh of air to his left. Alistair spun and parried blindly, his sword arm jarring and his legs straining as he somehow managed to meet or dodge each heavy blow. But his reach was too short – he needed to end this before the mace snapped his arm or his shoddy blade or simply crushed his head. When the next swing came and collided near the hilt, he flung his free hand to the flat of the sword and pushed with both arms, redirecting the mace upwards. Immediately he dropped low and lunged into a powerful thrust of his sword. A shriek of metal piercing metal, the assault of a smell so vile even the pit toilets seemed daisy-fresh, the sudden weight of his foe collapsing onto his chest, and just as suddenly Alistair was alone, panting heavily in the dark.  
  
The others! He threw off the body and sprinted towards the chaos by the fire to aid the nearest man. He was reaching the edge of the fighting when a heavy Templar shield nearly checked him.  
  
"Hey watch it! I'm on your side!" Alistair yelped.  
  
Rood yanked his arm to spin him around. "Can't you see, fool? There's too many of them! Get out of here!"  
  
"But we need to help!"  
  
"There's no helping anyone now! Or do you want to die? Run!" urged Rood, then fled into the darkness.  
  
Alistair frowned as he turned to survey the fight, but Rood was right. Too few humans remained standing, and darkspawn archers were picking off those who were running away. They hadn't noticed him yet, but that probably wasn't going to last much longer.  
  
Darkspawn chow or wolf bait. Not much of a choice, was it?  
  
He took off, crashing through the brush to follow Rood.

* * *

 

It was nearly dawn when Alistair and Rood gave up their desperate flight through the swamp.  
  
"I think we lost them," Alistair said with a groan, collapsing against a tree. "Maker, I'm so tired and hungry. Just kill me now."  
  
Rood harrumphed as he dropped his sword and shield and crumpled onto the ground. "You're one to talk. Hardly even injured. Smell like a privy, though."  
  
Alistair grinned, although in his current state he'd more likely grimaced. "Ah, you've figured out my secret. My stench is so terrible, it felled all the darkspawn around me. Behold Alistair the Pungent! Mighty warrior and bane of all noses!"  
  
Rood was not amused. "Certainly the bane of mine. If I weren't bleeding from a half-dozen holes, I'd shove you into the closest pond."  
  
"Aww, how thoughtful of you. Have I ever told you that you're my favoritest Templar ever?"  
  
"Just shut up and leave me in peace."  
  
Alistair shrugged and looked around. None of his surroundings appeared the least bit familiar; he had no clue in which direction they'd fled, let alone kept track of the zigs and zags they'd thrown to confuse any pursuers. At least the darkspawn weren't the Dalish. The two of them were as safe as men lost in the Wilds could be.  
  
Well, perhaps a little less so, as they had next to no supplies. He'd escaped with only his armor and that wretched shortsword; Rood hadn't carried off much either. Aside from his longsword and heavy shield, the other man was wearing only his woolen clothes and an arming jack – he hadn't the time to don any more protection – but had grabbed his half-emptied pack before fleeing.  
  
"Mind if I look through your things?" asked Alistair.  
  
An annoyed grunt from the dozing Rood was about as much a sign of permission as he was going to get. Alistair eased the pack away from the other Templar and began rifling through its contents: several elfroot poultices, a hunk of cheese, a change of smallclothes and socks, some coin, an empty water skin, and most importantly, three precious vials of lyrium.  
  
He really hoped they would be out of the Wilds by the time the lyrium ran out, assuming they'd still be alive.  
  
Setting the pack aside, Alistair closed his eyes and wracked his weary mind. What now? They were deep, deep in the Wilds; pushing north in their condition would be futile. If he and Rood were really lucky, they might find Chasind, but the tribes were spread very thinly out here.  
  
He'd learned long ago not to hold his breath for any wishes to come true. The Maker didn't seem to like him much.  
  
"Think, Alistair, think," he said aloud.  
  
Thoughts drifted to rumors of darkspawn that definitely weren't rumors now… Hadn't there been some talk back at the Tower a few weeks ago, about the king marshaling his forces at Ostagar? Maybe even now he could find an army encampment there. If he remembered correctly, Ostagar was less than a few days south and east of Jogby's camp. Last night's run couldn't cause too much of a deviation, were they to head in that direction, or so Alistair hoped.  
  
Well, he knew where to go now, sort of. That was more of a start than he'd thought they would have a moment ago. And now…now was probably as good a time as any to give in to exhaustion…


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair awoke tasting the susurrus of butterflies with a hint of raw marrow and bone meal.

"Gurgh," he announced to the tree in front of him. All at once every muscle in his body railed at his return to consciousness, his stomach attempted to switch places with his throat, and his brain decided to force an escape through his eyeballs, and failing that, pounded away at its imprisoning skull. Alistair tried to stand, but the ground, in cahoots with the rest of his mutinous body, upended him with a sudden twist and tilt. He nearly fell on top of the fitfully sleeping Rood.

He tried to speak again once he had managed to get everything but his rampaging headache back in order. Another croak emerged, and then he remembered that he hadn't drunk anything since before the massacre. Time to find some running water.

But first he checked on Rood, who…really didn't look good. At all. He did seem rather peaky earlier, but surely shock from loss of blood and water shouldn't look like this. The injured man was muttering and trembling, whether from cold or illness Alistair couldn't tell. Where Rood's face wasn't deathly pale, ugly browns and purples mottled his skin, and one large black patch glistened luridly. Alistair touched a hand to Rood's forehead and snatched it back in alarm. Maker, he was burning! And so clammy and _yielding_ , like badly bruised fruit.

No, this was not good, not at all. But there wasn't much Alistair could do besides clean and re-bandage the wounds Rood had hastily dressed during a few pauses in last night's flight.

As he set off with the water skin at his hip and Rood's sword and shield on his back, carefully listening for sounds of trickling water, Alistair wondered when the other Templar had last taken his lyrium, and if withdrawal was worsening his condition. He'd never heard of any symptoms making a man look like _that_ , though.

A stream gurgled close by. Alistair washed himself as best he could, then filled the skin and drank from it every now and then, soothing his headache some. Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd taken his own dosage? For once he wished he'd bothered to follow the regular schedule; as much as he hated the glowing blue stuff, now was not a good time for more crazy.

Of course crazy _would_ show up the moment he thought about it. There it was again, butterflies and bone meal on his tongue.

How in the Maker's creation would he know what noise a swarm of butterflies made?

Ohh no no no not crazy NOT CRAZY.

He was _not_ going crazy, he was sensing magic, he _had_ to be. Because only magic felt like that, like tasting impossible things. And he was going to find the source of it, and then he was going to make that source help them.

At the very least he was going to make sure he wasn't losing his damn mind.

Alistair chased that sensation of power like a scent hound, and every so often noted landmarks or set up trail signs the way the Chasind did. While it made no sense, he could swear that when the taste waxed stronger, he would also hear nearby rustling or catch glimpses of dark fur.

Suddenly the feeling swelled and burst, only this time instead of bone meal, Alistair detected a note of sunlight glistening on scummy pond water.

An apostate, it had to be an apostate, and he was getting close.

But the feeling was fast fading. The apostate knew he was following and was now trying to get away. Cursing softly, Alistair broke into a heedless run, desperate for the flavors to embolden again. He could not let this slim chance slip through his fingers, not now, not when he needed –

What – a person! He had no time to react and nearly bowled over the figure. "Oof!" He sprawled onto his hands and knees.

"Have a care where you are going, fool!" spat a woman's sharp voice as he picked himself off the ground.

Alistair blinked and worked his jaw. "What?" he said at last as he looked down into livid yellow eyes set in a pale face smooth as porcelain.

The eyes narrowed, and reddened lips pursed in displeasure. "I see you are even more brainless than you look."

"You know, you don't have to start with the insults. And in my defense, there wasn't anything in the way until you popped out of nowhere. Who are you and where did you come from, anyway?"

The woman folded thin arms across her chest. "I believe those questions are mine to ask, as these are my wilds, and _you_ are the intruder here."

Alistair then noticed how much skin her… outfit revealed, if scraps of strategically draped cloth could be considered an outfit. " _Your_ wilds?" he asked, gaping. Then his mind snapped back into gear, and he nearly slapped himself for an idiot. Of course. She was the apostate he'd been tracking. Had he paid attention, he would've noticed the traces of butterflies and pond water swirling around her.

"They are certainly more mine than yours. Why were you following me?"

"What? Following you? I wasn't – How could I be following you? I just met you!" He tried to look like he wasn't guilty of exactly that.

"Do you think I am so easily fooled, Templar?"

Oh, Maker. She was preparing to cast – primal, ice spell of some sort, judging by the flavor. This conversation was not going to end well. Alistair laughed weakly and began to back away as he held up placating hands.

"Templar? I'm not a –" Nope, not buying it. "Oh, sod it." He dived for cover behind the nearest scrub, narrowly avoiding a blast of freezing air.

The power around him crackled. Lightning next? He scrambled back up and had barely managed to settle his weapons in his hands when the spell struck him square in the chest, ripping a scream from his throat.

For a moment he felt his heart stop and it took all his will not to collapse. Alistair forced his feet to sprint left towards a tree, the witch's laughter hounding him as he fled from another blast of ice. "Too easy!" she cried.

Maker's breath. He needed to take control of the fight, grab some breathing room to focus his will, or he'd be a pretty corpse very soon.

A new flavor – Ah, entropy spell, the kind that drew on his worst fears. Lovely. He stabbed his sword into the soft ground and snatched the biggest rock in sight. "Don't look now but … look now!" Alistair yelled as he hurled it at the chanting apostate. The flying stone startled her enough to break her concentration and stop the spell.

Now was his chance. He mustered all the willpower he could with a deep breath and released it.

A blinding white column of light crashed down into the swamp. Once his eyes cleared, Alistair could see the witch lying stunned a short distance from where she'd stood earlier. "Not a bad smite," he said to himself smugly, and moved to bind her hands behind her with the leather carrying strap he'd cut away from the water skin.

As the apostate regained her senses, Alistair hauled her up to her feet and steadied her with one hand on her shoulder. "I apologize…" he began, and then thought better of it. "Well no, not really." He caught a look of derision. "Alright, it seems like we've had a bad start. Let's try this again, shall we?"

The woman said nothing in response but only glared at him.

"Right, well. My name is Alistair, lowliest Templar of the Circle Tower," he said with a grin and a slight mock bow. "And you are…?"

"Cease your prattle and keep your hands away from me," she snarled and wrenched away from his touch.

Alistair blushed hotly but reached for her shoulder again. "Look, I don't enjoy this any more than you do, but I have to drain your mana. Without the enchanted bracers we'd normally use, I have to, ah, keep… touching you, unfortunately." He felt his ears burn as his flush deepened. "Your… shoulder, it'll be…"

Maker, why did this have to be so awkward?

"I'm trying to be a gentleman, alright? Unless you'd prefer I gag you or keep hitting you with a stick."

The witch continued to glare at him for a while. "You are making a grave error, Templar, if you think to make me one of your caged mages," she said at last.

Alistair sighed. "I'll take that as a sign of cooperation, then." He got a good grip on her shoulder and began to lead her away. "Come on, let's get moving. There's someone I need you to take a look at."


	3. Chapter 3

At first, the walk back to where Alistair had left Rood was not entirely unpleasant. True, he was half-dragging, half-shoving a scowling apostate through a cold misty swamp while tired, sore, and starving, but at least his current company was no worse than usual – her ease on the eyes somewhat offset the danger of being zapped into a toad the moment he let his guard down – and she left him alone to his thoughts.

Right now Alistair was wondering just what he was going to do with this woman once he brought her to Rood. He hadn't exactly been acting on more than impulse when he'd set off to find her.

Abruptly the witch spoke, as if reading his mind.

"What do you hope to accomplish by my capture, Templar? I cannot be of much use to you empty of mana, and you scarcely can fend for your own hide, out here in these wilds."

Alistair nearly jumped at her voice. "Huh? Oh. Honestly, I wasn't thinking – "

"That much is evident," she smirked.

"Hey, I'm speaking here. Didn't your mother ever teach you not to interrupt people?"

"My mother taught me not to interrupt my betters. But by all means, continue bleating."

Alistair shot her a tiny glare. "As I was saying, I hadn't thought much beyond having you take a look at a very sick colleague, and then maybe guide us to Ostagar."

"Do you expect me to meekly obey you, like those cattle you keep penned in your Tower?"

"Well, it never hurts to ask, does it."

"And for what reason would I be remotely inclined to aid you, if I were even able to do so?"

"I have got you at my mercy, if you haven't noticed. You could stand to show a little fear."

The woman raised thin eyebrows. "Truly? I, afraid of you, one lone, weak fool, lost in the Wilds? What would you do if I refused to do your bidding?"

He frowned. She had him there, but this was no time to admit just how little power he held.

"Fine, how about this: Let's not think of ourselves as 'Templar and captive apostate' – even if I _am_ a Templar and you _are_ a captive apostate." The witch opened her mouth, no doubt to mock his intelligence again, but Alistair plowed ahead. "Right now all I want is to be free of the Wilds, and I'm fairly sure all you want is to be free of me. I _think_ we can work together, just for the littlest of whiles, so we can _both_ get what we want. Then you can go back to shooting lightning at me to your cold little heart's content, and I'll go back to staying well away from you and your snide barbs, alright?"

"And why would I ever agree to cooperate with a Templar?"

"Did I mention the part where you get to go back to shooting lightning," he said dryly. "It won't even be in the Tower of Magi."

She studied him for a moment. "I see no reason to trust you."

"I haven't run you through with a sword yet, though that would solve a few of my problems. How's that?"

"That is insufficient grounds," she said. "You could still renege on your word at the first opportunity."

He ran his free hand through his hair in frustration. "Well so could you, but we have to start somewhere, don't we? So, deal?"

The apostate lanced him with a black look. "'Tis hardly a fair deal when one party is bound and kept powerless."

"Andraste's holy fire, I'm not coercing you at swordpoint. Can we work together or not?"

"Very well, then," she conceded, her expression neutral. "I will bring you to Ostagar."

"Good," Alistair said a bit too cheerfully. Constantly draining her mana was sapping his already low energy and his patience, and his right arm ached from having to keep it on the woman's left shoulder. He moved to her other side, feeling a little silly at having to switch arms, and wished again that Rood had left their anti-magic bracers in his pack, even though he wouldn't have thought to bring those along when looking for water.

"It just occurred to me, I never got your name," said Alistair.

"I did not wish to give it, fool. My feelings on that have not changed."

"Well, I can hardly refer to you as 'Apostate' or 'Witch' or 'Hey You' if we're going to be working together, can I? Wouldn't be very polite of me."

She bristled but did not take the bait. "You can, and you shall."

"Have it your way, then," Alistair sighed. "It's Alistair, by the way."

"What are you prattling about now?"

"My name. It's Alistair. Not 'Templar,' 'fool,' or even 'Templar fool.' Alistair."

"If you are done with this idiocy…"

"Fine, fine, shutting up now."

A tense silence settled as Alistair, with the witch in tow, worked his way around dense undergrowth, bog, and the occasional set of boulders. Through the leather of his gauntlet, he could feel a steady warmth emanating from the bare skin beneath his hand. A quick glance at the woman's pale arm - and only her arm, he told himself, keeping his eyes from wandering any further - confirmed she didn't even have goosebumps from the chill breeze.

How was she not freezing? About to voice the question, Alistair let his gaze slide up to her face, and found her eyeing him with an expression that brought to mind an old merlin in Arl Eamon's mews. A willful, proud bird, that nearly clawed his face when he got too close. He turned his attention back to the ground in front of him.

At length, he paused at one of his cairns to regain his bearings, and tugged at his captive's arm to signal her to stop. As he crouched and scanned for any tracks he'd made or plants he'd disturbed during his earlier pursuit, he could feel the same hawk-like stare taking in his every movement.

"You impress me, Templar," the woman remarked not a little snidely. "I did not think your kind stooped to adopt the primitive ways of barbarians."

"Yes, well, they don't make stupid Templars," Alistair huffed, although the backhanded compliment mildly surprised him. "The instructors were quite keen on making sure we had some grasp of woodcraft. Wouldn't do the Order much good if we got lost on the way back from capturing apostates."

"I see. 'Tis a most practical attitude. Yet your Chantry fails to apply it in their treatment of mages."

Distracted from his task, Alistair wasn't in any mood to defend the Chantry in a pointless debate with a hedge witch. "Do you really want to go there, argue about mages? And I thought you didn't want to talk."

The silence resumed. Finally spotting his prints among rotting fir needles, Alistair brought the less sore of his arms up to the woman's shoulders again and pressed on. The light was dying swiftly. Mentally he kicked himself for not bringing a flint and rags, and guessed he had an hour at most to find his way back to Rood.

Then: "I have a question, if you will."

"What is it," Alistair said flatly.

"You referred to yourself as the 'lowliest Templar of the Circle Tower.' I take it that is why you are here on an unpleasant assignment?"

"What are you getting at?" He was baffled; one minute the apostate was almost tolerable, the next she was getting under his skin.

She gave him an arch look. "I am only making conversation. You seemed so eager for it earlier."

"It's called 'being friendly.' Puts most people at ease."

"You must forgive me, then. I am unused to social graces."

"Unused to…? You've mean you've hardly been around other people?"

"I was raised in these woods, and I have seen no reason to have much… company of this sort."

"So you've lived here your entire life, in this forest, with just your mother that you mentioned? And you've never been outside of it?" He couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity.

"I have left it on occasion," the girl said defensively. "But this is my home. And you can hardly claim that your so-called civilization is any kinder towards mages who value their freedom."

"You…have a point. Don't you ever get lonely, though?"

"I have never wished for companionship."

"So, you, what, ran wild with the wolves and talked to trees? I imagine they talk back all the time."

Tawny eyes narrowed in irritation. "Enough about me. I wish to know more about you," she demanded.

That was an odd switch. "What, me? What could you possibly want to know about?"

"Everything. You are… not like any Templar I have met before."

Was he imagining things, or was the witch… sidling up to him? He felt his face flush, and tried to edge back to arm's length.

"I have never been taken, not even when I ventured so close to a chantry, once," she said in admiring tones.

Okay, she was definitely cozying against him now. He could practically feel heat radiating from her through his armor. Once more he attempted to move away, but she somehow redirected his push into a inward sweep and was now facing him. "What are you doing?" he protested weakly as he took slow, backwards steps.

"Getting to know you," she smiled in a way that suffused warmth into his belly. "You must be so much cleverer than the others. A shame, to be so lowly and ignored, when you should be… appreciated…" the woman purred. "Yes, so strong and handsome…"

A thud at his back surprised him, and Alistair would have jumped and fallen forward if he weren't pinned to the tree by the girl's weight. She was rising on her tiptoes and pressing her front against his, her eyes hooded, lips freshly moistened, back arching just so to give him a view that left nothing to the imagination.

Absurdly he wondered if her skin was chafing against his armor.

"I…you…" he managed to gasp, his heart jumping in his throat. It was hard to think for the burning in his ears and beneath his stomach. Those red lips were inching closer, too close… He could feel her breath, warm and smelling of sweet herbs. And wasn't he supposed to have a hand on her shoulder, and not her waist? When had that happened?

"Indeed," she whispered, a smirk curling a corner of her small mouth.

Then soft, soft lips caressing his, a scorching tongue seeking to explore his mouth, everything so warm, so pliant… Shock and sensation drove out his last coherent thoughts. He closed his eyes and yielded to her demands, bent forward and brought one hand up to cup a smooth, tender cheek while the other trailed down to the small of her back and melded her hips with his. Her tongue slipped in, entwining and devouring, and he could discern those herbs he had smelled on her breath, flavors of fennel and sweet basil and tarragon…

And the taste of a twinge in the gut, seasoned with an oncoming sneeze that never arrives.

Instantly Alistair's mind cleared, and his eyes flew open in anger.

"WITCH!" he roared as he forced her back with a shove to her shoulders. She stumbled and landed hard on her bottom. "Thought you could trick me, did you, you sneaky…witch…tart!" He took a step closer, looming over her like a thundercloud.

A flicker of fear and disappointment on her face was quickly smoothed over by disdain. "Oh, how very eloquent," she scoffed. "I need not have tried, though. Tell me, did you truly take vows of chastity, or did they simply geld you in the – "

"Shut up! You know nothing of who I am or what I want!" Alistair snarled, hoisting her up and slamming her back against a tree. The girl cried out in pain.

He blanched in shame. "Oh, Maker," he said, nearly dropping her as his grasp loosened. "I am so sorry."

"Pathetic weakling," the woman spat. "You - "

Before she could continue, something large shook the bushes, startling both of them.

"Alistair…" an inhuman voice croaked. A tall figure stepped out, carrying a pack and holding a bare shortsword.

"Rood?" Alistair said, horrified. The other Templar was unrecognizable: his face was sunken and skull-like, and any exposed skin was that awful brown-purple-black.

"Woke up. Tried…to find you," the sick man panted. "Followed… your tracks. You must help!"

The apostate's eyes were wide as saucers. "This is your friend? He is beyond help now. In fact, we must hurry away."

"Wait!" cried Alistair. "What's happening? Why can't we help him?"

"Fool, he has the Blight sickness! He is turning into a ghoul, and his blood calls to his masters. We must go!"

Rood seized Alistair's forearm. "NO! Please… help me! They are coming! They call, singing… Don't…let them…take - !" A sudden blast of power struck him, and he sank to his knees.

Alistair stood paralyzed by shock and confusion. "What did you do to him, witch?"

"Grant him mercy, if you must, but we must leave now!"

"Mercy?"

"A quick death, you idiot! To spare him from the darkspawn!"

Alistair stared at what was once Rood, then drew his sword. "Forgive me," he whispered, and slit his comrade's throat. He stooped to pick up the dropped pack.

"Come! We must run!" said the witch, already stepping away with anxiety creeping into her voice.

"Wait," said Alistair. He strode toward her grimly with sword still in hand, blood running down its fuller and trailing on the ground. "Turn your back to me."

The woman's face contorted in fear and anger as she started back. "Coward! You would –!"

Alistair's patience ran out. He grabbed her arm and cut the leather bindings, then opened the pack to fish through it.

"What? You would let me go?"

"You can't really defend yourself with your hands tied, now can you? And here, take these." He handed her the vials.

She stared at them dumbly. "Lyrium, so you can cast more," Alistair explained, settling the pack on his back and his shield on his arm. "Drink one, then we'll go, witch."

She tossed back a vial and grimaced at the taste. "Morrigan," she said as she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist.

"What?"

"You may call me Morrigan."  
  
"Right then. Come on!" Alistair took her hand, and together they ran.


	4. Chapter 4

They didn't get far in the fading light when the first arrow sang past Alistair's shoulder.

"Maker! They've spotted us!" he cried in alarm.

"Clearly," Morrigan hissed. "We must find cover. This way!" She led them out of the small clearing into dense thicket as more arrows flew by.

Brambles and sharp leaves scratched his face and caught on the pack and his armor, but the witch slipped through the brush with graceful ease. "Ow ow ow!" Alistair yelped as an evil twig gouged across his eyelid. "Couldn't you have picked a less thorny patch?"

"Quiet, fool! Do you want them to discover us?" the witch chided in a harsh whisper.

Alistair pouted but kept his mouth shut as he tried to keep up with her. Something snagged his foot, tripping him, though he caught himself in time to prevent a face-plant. He pulled at his leg, but it refused to come loose. "Blast it, I'm stuck." The ominous heavy crashing behind them was getting louder. "Um, a little help here? Please?"

Morrigan gave an exasperated sigh as she made her way back to him. "And here you claim to be proficient at woodcraft."

"They taught us to track, not evade. Mages don't exactly go after Templars, you know." Alistair held back arms of shrubbery, and the witch knelt to work him free of an ensnaring vine.

"If all Templars are as slow and - Mmf," she grunted as she yanked, "dimwitted as you - Ungh - perhaps we should. There!"

They rose to leave when a greatsword cleaved a large bush into a stump not a body length away. Mage and Templar froze as an enormous darkspawn wearing a horned helm strode through the cleared space, its deep laughter rousing them to their senses. They bolted, only to be stopped short by a ring of ghastly arms and heads bursting out of the ground.

"They just pop up everywhere, don't they? Did you know they could do that?" said Alistair as he settled sword and shield in his hands and dropped into a protective crouch over Morrigan.

The witch gave no reply but twisted her hands in an arcane gesture, then shot an arm upward and shouted a word of power. All of the darkspawn stumbled back, dazed, save the big helmeted one, which merely shook its head and attacked.

"Nice stunning spell," said Alistair, ducking the greatsword's swing. "I wish I had that power."

"Save your breath," Morrigan muttered as she brushed past him and broke into a sprint.

He rolled his eyes before following suit. "Why thank you, Alistair, you are too kind," the warrior grumbled, then screamed when his next step met air instead of ground. He found himself tumbling down a steep grassy hill and threw away his arms to keep from impaling himself. At last he slowed to a stop in a shallow pond. He wiggled his limbs to check for injuries before he stood with a groan; Maker be praised, nothing had sprained, although his bruises were going to have bruises.

"Brirr," Alistair shivered as he jogged out of the freezing water and shook drops from his eyes. The witch, of course, was standing, snickering and dry, at the bottom of the slope he'd gotten to know so well. "You could have warned me, you know."

"And deprive myself of such amusement? I think not."

"Heartless bitch." He picked up his sword and shield, which had landed close to the water.

"Bumbling idiot," she smirked, and started running again. "Do try to keep your eyes open. This way!"

Morrigan led them through what appeared to be a maze of ruins sinking into open swamp. Tevinter, he guessed, judging by the arches and ornate columns. Alistair glanced over his shoulder, and in the cloudy twilight he could make out a horned figure leading almost a score of enemies towards them. An unfamiliar slickness crept over his tongue.

"Hold on," he called to the witch. "You're not casting, are you?"

"Do I look like I'm casting?"

"I was just checking! I think they have some sort of magic user." He grimaced as the taste grew bolder.

Morrigan paused and gazed into the middle distance. "Indeed," she confirmed. "Grey Wardens call it an emissary."

"Just when it couldn't get any better," Alistair muttered. "How well do you know these ruins?"

"Well enough. Why?"

"We can't keep running, not with all those archers and that emissary. We need to find a chokepoint, one that has some cover from arrows."

The witch pondered a moment as she looked around then nodded. "I believe I know of such a place." She darted across some fallen masonry and headed for a crumbling silhouette. Alistair stayed close behind.

They stopped at a narrow doorway into what was once some kind of residence on a small island. The floor was paved with dry flagstones; columns framed the entrance and stood just wide enough for two men to walk abreast. The walls, broken but largely intact, would with luck provide sufficient cover, and the lone entry into the structure sat atop a short flight of crooked stone stairs.

"Perfect," said Alistair. He dropped the pack behind a chunk of collapsed ceiling and took out the water skin for a quick drink before the darkspawn arrived. Then a thought came to him, and he motioned at Morrigan. "Would you hand me one of those vials I gave you?"

"What for? You are no mage."

"Yes, well, Templars use lyrium for their abilities. Not something the Chantry likes to advertise, as it also keeps us in line since we get addicted."

Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "Is there nothing to which your Chantry will not stoop?"

Alistair sighed, "At any rate, the blue stuff doubles as a pick-me-up, which I need badly. I've had little sleep and no food here."

The witch pursed her lips but silently handed him a vial. He uncorked it and took a sip. "Ugh," he shuddered as he fought back the initial headache. "Tasty. Alright, I'm done." A giddy rush chased away his aches and exhaustion, and he tried not to giggle.

"You do not need more?" asked Morrigan as she replaced the stopper and tucked away the vial.

"A little goes a long way for me." Alistair peered through the doorway. "Ah, here they come! Get behind me!" He moved to block as much of the entrance as he could with his body and jerked his shield up in time to catch an arrow.

"I am no wilting flower!" Morrigan protested as she flung a hex.

Alistair heard a bowstring loose and threw out his shield to stop another arrow from piercing Morrigan's chest, then turned to bash a short darkspawn in the head. It fell down the stairs, knocking over at least two others. "Far from it, but let me handle the pointy stuff while you do your thing," he panted between parries and blocks. A dagger slipped past his guard but luckily did not sink deep into an exposed point under his arm. He responded with a stroke of his sword, parting the limb grasping the offending weapon from its owner.

The witch glared at him but readied a spell. "Step right!" she cried, and a stream of frigid air shot forth from her hands, encasing a swath of darkspawn in ice.

"Now that is a neat trick! Could you please do that again?" Alistair found that if he smashed the frozen creatures hard enough in unprotected places with his shield or the pommel of his sword, they would splinter into bloody chunks, and he shattered as many as he could without stepping too far from the protective doorway. A grin threatened to dance across his features; he could get used to this, fighting alongside a mage.

Then a slimy, bitter flavor joined that of Morrigan's power, and a ball of flames tossed them both onto their backs. Alistair heard breath rush out of the witch as he landed on top of her. The shield kept the worst of the spell from hitting his face, but he could feel the chafing of mild burns where metal armor wasn't sufficiently padded.

Morrigan pushed the warrior off of her with strength borrowed from fury. "You will learn to fear me!" she raged. Arcs of lightning leapt from her hands, followed by screeches of agony from the darkspawn.

Alistair got up, ignoring his pain and focusing his will. He scanned the remaining creatures for the emissary and spotted it at the back of the raiding party, next to the huge horned darkspawn. The blighted mage noticed his gaze and grinned at him, raising a gnarled staff to cast some nasty spell. "Oh no you don't," he yelled, and threw wide his arms in a practiced gesture.

The night shone bright as day, as an enormous pillar of light smashed down from the sky and into all the darkspawn. Alistair shaded his eyes with a hand and thought he could see a few fly backwards into the deep water nearby. Once his sight readjusted to the darkness, he estimated they had less than a dozen enemies left, including maybe three archers, and all of them momentarily stunned by the smite.

"I am almost empty of mana," Morrigan announced.

Alistair frowned. "There's no more lyrium?"

"None, but I have one more spell." She touched his shoulder and stepped in front of him. "Do not be alarmed."

An explosion on his tongue - that rustling rabble of butterflies and the stickiness from a faceful of dusty cobwebs - and where the witch had stood was now the biggest, hairiest spider he'd ever seen: It rivaled most ponies in size. Alistair braced himself against a broken pillar as he tried not to faint or cry.

"GYAH! Maker's breath! What are you?"

The spider tossed him a condescending glance – part of his brain gibbered at the absurdity – before it overwhelmed and savaged the nearest darkspawn with glistening fangs and an unearthly shriek.

Alistair shook his head clear and threw himself into the fray to join the Morrigan-spider. "Alright, who ordered death?" he challenged, and hacked his way towards the still-dazed emissary to run it through.

He had no sooner removed his sword from its corpse when a greatsword came at him out of the corner of his eye. Damn, the big one had flanked him! He overbalanced as he dodged the swing and stumbled forward into a squat archer. A lucky swipe of his blade cut its bowstring; he jumped aside to avoid a sweep aimed at his gut, and instead the greatsword decapitated the archer with a fountaining spray of blood.

Alistair liked the mobility of splintmail, but now would be a good time to wear that blasted heavy plate armor.

He was backing away from the great horned darkspawn and a shorter one when a clattering shriek caught his attention. A few paces away, three melee fighters had surrounded the Morrigan-spider, which was rearing in rage and pain, streaks of greenish ooze painting its legs and abdomen. Another archer was flanking the witch and doing its best to turn her into a pincushion.

"Morrigan, take care of the archer and get back to the doorway!" Alistair shouted before turning his focus back to the two figures before him. Snarling, he threw his weight behind his shield to knock over the shorter creature and rammed his sword into its face, then yanked free his blade, narrowly sidestepping a swing of the greatsword. The big darkspawn raised both arms for another mighty blow, but Alistair rushed forward to pummel it with his shield and force it to retreat with each strike. As it stood dazed, he ran past the horned darkspawn to come to Morrigan's aid.

She was still fighting off multiple enemies but had done as he'd ordered: The archer lay in a gruesome mess of blood and webbing, and the spider had backed up the stairs and was squeezing through the narrow doorframe. Alistair roared as he barreled towards her to grab the darkspawns' notice, along the way bowling a stocky one into a tall fighter. Morrigan clicked and chittered in annoyance.

"Sure you had them covered," he answered as he again positioned himself before the entry, leaving enough space for the spider to dart forward and wrap one enemy in silk, then he lunged ahead to cut down their remaining creatures. "A little more dying, please?" Alistair asked a tall one when it refused to keel over after a good stab in its thigh, but it didn't get to respond before a heavily armored arm knocked it aside. The horned darkspawn stood in its place, a blood-curdling grin shining from under its helmet.

Alistair's muscles refused to obey in time. The greatsword crashed down on his left pauldron and parted metal, leather, wool, and sinew before crunching halfway through his collarbone. He crumpled to his knees under the force of the blow and dropped his shield as his arm went limp. Out to his left, the edge of the huge blade winked a parting gesture as it prepared to separate his head from his neck.

A high-pitched screech stabbed his ears. Alistair blinked when he realized he was still in one piece, and blinked again to see the Morrigan-spider tackle the huge darkspawn. She knocked the greatsword out of its hands, though it stayed on its feet and managed to gain high ground. Fangs bared, she lunged at its neck, but the horned creature seized two of the witch's forelegs and bent her joints the wrong way with sickening snaps. As she screamed, it adjusted its grip and wrenched her onto her back.

Before he could think through what he was doing, Alistair leapt to his feet and checked the darkspawn with his good shoulder. It tripped over one of Morrigan's legs and fell on its side, striking its head on a stone step. Alistair planted a foot on the monster's chest and shoved his sword through a gap in its helmet.

He straightened and stepped back, taking in fast, shaky breaths and scanning for any more foes, but didn't see anything move other than a now-human Morrigan slowly sitting up and holding stiff arms a little out from her sides. Deep purple bruises covered her wrists, and her hands hung at odd angles. Alistair wobbled towards her. The adrenaline- and lyrium-fueled rush that had buoyed him through the battle was draining out of his body, and he collapsed against the wall beside her.

"Nothing like a brush with death to make you…not like death much," he quipped in a weak voice and turned his head up to meet the witch's eyes. Alistair tried to read her expression, but his vision swam and darkened, and his breaths grew shorter and faster. So cold, the night was so cold… He glimpsed a small crease of annoyance – or was it worry? – marring Morrigan's perfect brow. Alistair wanted to smooth it out with his thumb, but blackness held him down, and dragged him away.

 


	5. Chapter 5

A damp cloth across his brow greeted Alistair as he came to his senses.

"Do not move," drifted Morrigan's stern voice from beyond the edges of his hazy vision. The clear night sky blurred above him as it wheeled in a stately precession. He tried to turn his head to face her, but the pain throbbing in his skull and shoulder and side – in fact, all over – flared up and seized him in a burning agony, and a choking gasp escaped him as his surroundings threatened to vanish again.

"Where…?" he asked when he regained control of his voice. It left his throat as little more than a whisper.

He was surprised the witch had heard him when she answered, "We are still in the ruins. I have cleaned and dressed your wounds, but they are beyond my power to heal." She sounded more distant and higher up; though he heard no footfalls, he sensed she must be walking away.

"Where…you going…?" Alistair pleaded.

Silence. Then a soft pop, and bright golden eyes hovered over him as the lip of the water skin was pressed to his mouth. "Drink." A hand cradled the back of his head and lifted, and cool liquid soothed his dry tongue. He obeyed and swallowed.

Alistair took a few more gulps while he tried to gather his swimming thoughts. "You…how are…?"

Something that looked like uncertainty stirred in the depths of those radiant eyes. "I waited until I had enough power to heal myself a little." The water skin settled at his side. "Do you still thirst?"

He caught a note of urgency in Morrigan's question. "'M better," he mumbled.

She nodded as she stood. "I shall go then. Drink if you can, and keep your breathing steady."

A wave of desperation surged in Alistair's chest. "Wait!" he rasped. "Don't… don't leave me…"

Her shining eyes fixed him with an inscrutable look, but she said nothing. He felt a pulse of power – once again the noise of butterflies, this time joined by a mild, creamy tartness – and her outline shimmered and dissolved into a hundred thousand wings. For a moment they hummed in place, then bunched together and rose in a purposeful cloud.

But not all of them flew away. Alistair couldn't tell how much of the swarm descended onto his chest; he realized he was unarmored as he felt their strange restless weight through his gambeson and shirt. Though bad memories resurfaced of falling off a tree limb near a hornet nest as a boy, he couldn't summon enough panic for any sort of reaction, but instead watched them settle into a dense blanket. The buzzing intensified as the bees shook in a frenzied dance, and some teeth-rattling moments later he felt much warmer.

A large bee separated from the rest to land on his cheekbone. "Clever," he breathed, and went cross-eyed as she crawled onto his nose. "This… is amazing. You're amazing. Thank you." He felt a wisp of wind ghost across his face and stir his eyelashes when in response the bee took off and whirred, then left to dart around his head with her sisters.

Hours passed; Alistair knew not how many. He kept his mind empty with something akin to Templar meditation to push away the pain and the cold pressing in from the ground, and occupied himself by tracing with his eyes the intricate paths of the insects between the stars. Perhaps he was only seeing things, but it seemed that the swarm glowed with a soft halo, leaving after-images on the backs of his eyelids, and that the after-images resolved into a certain face with a remarkable, piercing yellow gaze. A sense of calm sank into Alistair's bones. He felt he was floating, adrift on slow swells of earth and suspended in a cocoon of warmth as the world spun around him.

All at once the bees lifted and coalesced into a crouching form beside him. A different taste of magic – had someone else joined them? – followed by the beating of heavy wings, and then the sensations on his tongue scattered.

A weathered face partly veiled by long white hair shadowed his from the lightening sky. "It is not like you, girl, to take in strays," the face said with a low cackle, and squinted. In response Morrigan merely straightened from her crouch; Alistair could not see her expression. "Oh, but this one looks familiar! Now where would I have seen him?"

"Dear mother, that would hardly matter now," the younger woman said with a hint of impatience. "Nonetheless, if… he is of no use, then we may… leave him."

What? Use? _Leave_?

"Shush, lad," chided Morrigan's mother. Oh, he'd said that aloud? "You will do yourself injury." The old woman stood to face her daughter. "Ah, I remember now. The fugitive king, with his dark, scowling friend. Was truly it so long ago? It hardly feels like any time has passed…"

"If you are done reminiscing, mother…"

"Patience, girl." The older witch bent over him again. "Bring him. The Wardens you should have been watching will find him useful indeed."

Wardens?

"All in good time, boy. Now, sleep." Power swelled around Alistair. His eyes grew heavy, and he sank into a dreamless slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

He woke, stiff but pain-free, and this time in a real bed. Well, as close to one as Alistair would find among witches in these wilds; it was little more than a stack of furs and rushes that raised him scant inches from the actual ground. When he stretched his legs under the thin wool blankets, his feet, already over the edge of the pallet, scraped against packed earth.

A fire roared a few paces away beneath a shoddy hole, suffusing the cramped room with the clean smoke of burning fir. Beside it, herbs hung fragrant and drying from hemp lines, and a hunched figure sat sorting through a small pile of them.

"So, you awaken. I trust you are feeling better, young man?"

Alistair sat up against a turf wall and looked down at his left shoulder. He found a thin faded scar, but nothing so much as popped as he rotated his arm. Peering down his torso and under the blankets, he saw no sign of burns, arrow wounds, or any other injuries from the battle. He wondered with a little awe if any Circle mage he knew could heal so thoroughly.

"Much better," he said, hastily adding "my lady," as he remembered his manners. "I… have you to thank, for saving me?"

"You do. Consider it repayment for aiding my daughter. She may be strong, but she is still new to her power." The old woman raised her head to stare at him with eyes the same gold as Morrigan's, albeit dimmed with age. "Though she wouldn't have gotten into such a predicament, had you not captured her in the first place, Templar."

Alistair gulped. The witch was not drawing power from the Fade, but something… unnatural hummed about her in a way that set his teeth on edge. And those eyes: Clouded they might be, but he got the sense she saw very, very clearly. He'd better tread carefully. "I apologize, my lady. For what it's worth, which I suppose isn't much." He rubbed the back of his neck.

Morrigan's mother chuckled. "My, so polite. Much like your father."

"You knew my father? King Maric? But how - ?" he gaped.

"Yes, yes. But that is of no consequence, for now," she dismissed with finality and rose with a grace belied by her years. "First we will get you on your feet. You must be hungry, after two days abed."

"Two days?" Alistair repeated. His stomach gurgled in affirmation.

The old witch arched an eyebrow at him before she moved to the door. "Hmm, perhaps not quite so much like your father. You seem a bit slower. Stay here. I will send in Morrigan with some food."

"Thank you, again," he called as she exited the hut. "For your mercy. You could have left me. To die."

Morrigan's mother turned and studied him. "Indeed, you owe me a debt. But do not be too quick to trust, young man, or mistake purpose for kindness. You will regret it when the knife strikes unseen and slips between your ribs." With that, she disappeared but left the door ajar, brightness snaking through the crack.

Alistair sat puzzling over the cryptic words – somehow they didn't feel like general advice – when the low murmur of voices beyond the door caught his attention. He couldn't hear all of what was said, but managed to discern "bind" and "line" among the old woman's cackling. A pause, then Morrigan responded with a clear "Yes, mother."

Early afternoon sunlight blinded him for a moment as the door swung wide. A delicious smell wafted in, and when he could see again, Morrigan was seated facing him with a bowl of hot stew in each hand. She handed him the one with a more generous serving, and he nodded in thanks as he accepted it and dug in with relish.

"This is good," he said between mouthfuls. "Much better than typical fare in Fereldan inns. I swear there's a conspiracy to poison travelers with uniform grey paste. What's in this? I like the spices."

"'Tis a simple stew: rabbit, with leeks, sage, garlic, and barley." She set her half-eaten portion aside. "You find yourself well."

Alistair scraped the bottom of his bowl, wishing for some bread to sop up the last of the liquid. "I do." He looked up at Morrigan, who had fixed him with an intent gaze. Suddenly he felt exposed, and remembered he was wearing nothing but a pair of braies. At least the blankets were still covering him from the waist down. It wouldn't be too obvious if he drew one of them over his shoulders right now, would it? "You are… also well?"

Morrigan said nothing, but her expression shifted, turning …angry? Irritated? And with the way the silence was stretching on… "I ah, I knew you'd fixed yourself up a bit before you did that, that bee thing – that was really a neat trick – every time you do that shape-changing thing, actually, there's the most curious sensation, it's really quite beautiful… The bee thing though, very clever way to keep me warm, I never thought bees were so warm, though I guess that makes sense with all the buzzing… Anyway, you looked pretty bad when I passed out the first time – "

"I am well. Mother is a skilled healer, though it is not her preferred brand of magic."

"She really is. I don't think any of the Circle mages could have done as good a job, not that people bring anyone at death's door to the Tower on a regular basis, it's not easy when you have to row them out to the middle of Lake Calenhad, so I guess we'll never know. A shame the healers are locked up so tight, though, they could really do some good out there…"

Wonderful, he was babbling. Maker save him and strike him down now.

Morrigan was now staring at a spot on his blankets, somewhere by his knees, and rubbing slow circles around the knob of her wrist with a forefinger.

Alistair set down his own bowl. "Er, may I see? Your wrist, that is."

The girl raised her eyes to meet his; something else had joined the irritation in them. He looked down before he could figure out what. The blush that had started when he'd first noticed her stare was now creeping past his collarbones, and Alistair cursed his fair complexion.

Without a word, Morrigan offered her left hand, palm up, and he cradled it with one of his own. So smooth and small and delicate, he marveled as he inspected it as gently as he could, and so unlike his clumsy, sword-calloused mitts. Yet from this hand had flowed such devastating power. "Did it hurt, when you had to move me?"

"Some," she admitted. "But it is much easier to heal myself than others." Morrigan blinked in thought for a moment and withdrew her hand. "How do you sense a mage accessing the Fade?"

Alistair looked up at her earnest face. "Well, the 'how' I can't tell you, as the Grand Cleric would have my guts for garters, or maybe just have the Maker smite me in his wrath, but… I suppose I can describe what it feels like. For me, at least; every Templar senses a bit differently. I get these… flavors on the back of my tongue, where you normally don't taste much. Well, they're not exactly flavors, though I don't know what to call them. There's just this feeling there, that brings to mind something I'd usually experience with another sense, and sometimes it's something I've never experienced. Your shapeshifting, for instance. I get the sound of many thousands of butterflies, even though I've never seen more than a few at a time." Alistair paused as he recalled the sensation and softly added, "I really like that, the butterflies. Like breaking free…"

He shook off his reverie and continued, "Each spell is a little different, too, sort of like how you can tell a reed flute from a clay one; there's a different quality to the power. Like when I was first following you, I got a little bit of the taste of crunching bones, and at other times the glare of light coming off a very dirty pond, along with the butterflies thing. What were those forms, anyway?"

Morrigan frowned for a moment, then said, "I was wolf and raven."

"Huh, that explains the bits of fur I found." He thought back to before the darkspawn attacked the camp. "You were watching us. Watching me."

"I was waiting for Grey Wardens Mother told me to observe. Your camp seemed a likely place for them to find while traveling through the wilds."

"Fair enough. But you kept watching after the darkspawn killed everyone else, and I don't think the Wardens would have found me and Rood."

The witch played with the food in her bowl but did not answer. "Then you were just waiting to swoop down on us, is that it?" Alistair teased. "Swooping is bad, you know. Only evil witches do that to snatch up naughty children."

She glared at him. "Yes, children, to bring back to my mother so together we could feast on their bones."

"Aha, so you do have a sense of humor! I knew you weren't hopeless!" Alistair was feeling the glimmers of a spell, though. Better back off now.

"Well, ah, before I got side-tracked by your question about sensing magic, I just… wanted to say thank you. For saving me. I know you didn't have to, and, well, me being a Templar and all, you probably didn't want to – "

"'Twas not a matter of wanting. I judged I had a better chance of survival were you to help me, and so I helped you."

"Still, you could have run away, turned into a bird the first chance you got, but you didn't leave me to hang when I cut your bonds. You didn't leave me to die in those ruins. And… you didn't want to leave me when you came back with your mother. I think. That conversation is a bit fuzzy.

"At any rate, thank you, truly."

Morrigan pursed her lips. "I…you are welcome. But you should not be thanking me. Mother did most of the work."

Hessarian's mercy, why couldn't she just smile and nod? "Yes, but it was you, the whole time…" Alistair bit back a sigh of frustration, and the questions that had been eating at him since he woke in the ruins ran out of his mouth before he could shut it tight.

"Why didn't you run?" he blurted. "Why did you stay?" Alistair lifted his gaze from his blankets to look her in the eyes. He started when he saw them, molten and furious.

"Must you keep asking me such questions? I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?"

"I – sorry! I was just… curious. Confused. And…because I care –"

"Fool," she growled, "attachment is a weakness. Love and beauty are fleeting and meaningless." Morrigan turned away and stared at the fire for a moment as she inhaled a long shuddering breath. "There is only survival, and power…" Her head swung back to face him, and she leaned forwards onto her hands and knees.

That intent gaze had returned, hard and resolute but wilder. Eyes widening, Alistair tried to back away, but he was already in a corner. "Morrigan, what's going on? What do you mean?"

She clenched her jaw, then knocked over the bowls as she pounced and placed one hand on his upper thigh, the other on his forehead.

"Wait, what are you – Please, get off!"

A blast of power disoriented him before he had time to get his defenses up. His thoughts scattered like ants in a broken nest, and then he was flat on his back, limbs immobilized by invisible chains, and she was grabbing his jaw and turning his face to hers. Silent tears had left black streaks down her cheeks. "Only power," she whispered, straddling his torso, and crushed her lips to his.

This kiss was nothing like the other. She gave him no quarter, nowhere to make a stand, and her tongue was twisting and pushing and pinning his against his throat, robbing him of breath and what remained of his senses. Her hands raked across the planes of his chest. One of them began stroking the sensitive areas behind the angle of his jaw, at the nape of his neck, just above his shoulder blade, while the other followed the lines of his collarbone and the muscles in his arm, stopped to tease the inside of his elbow before it brought his hand to cup a small breast and tweak its peak through the soft cloth.

And all the while on his tongue her licorice taste, but something else as well: brackish water and the click of mantis claws, ghost-brush of moth wings, along with a familiar gut twinge and slow-flowing ice replacing blood in his veins, flavors completely at odds with the fire beginning to build in his groin. His hips twitched, trying to shift her weight to bring pressure where he wanted it.

No this wasn't how he wanted it, wasn't how he'd ever imagined

The witch had broken off the kiss and, with lips, tongue, and teeth, was blazing a path up his neck and along his jaw, towards his ear. "This little dance, what place does affection have in it?" she asked, voice strained and dark, hot breath tickling his neck as another wave of magic destroyed his recovering equilibrium, and she nibbled on his earlobe, traced the shell of his ear with her tongue. "None." Alistair's back tensed in a stolen response, and she shimmied down his torso such that the cleft of her ass rubbed against the hardening bulge in his braies. Fingers slid down his back and up his stomach, explored dips and valleys before they settled on his chest, circling and caressing.

Please no body will so weak traitorous why couldn't he just stop this stop it stop it

She sat up. Now his captive hands were playing with her breasts, rubbing and pinching her as her fingers directed his. Morrigan freed one of his hands, and it dropped to rest on her inner thigh as she slipped her own under the leather strips of her skirt and between her legs. He felt the muscles work in her legs while she rocked her hips back and forth, her cheeks brushing and torturing him, urging his trapped hips to buck in time with her rhythm, and her teeth bared in a predatory smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Tide flooding mantis snaps moths frantic Oh Maker why how could she how _dare_ she this wasn't

The witch had shifted her weight again and brought a hand to his smalls to free him when Alistair felt the strange magic weaken. For a heartbeat she paused, lifting her eyes to his, but then his rising anger and desperation flared and drove out his stupor and _pushed_.

A pulse of cleansing power filled the hut. With a roar Alistair grabbed the witch's throat and slammed her onto the floor.

"Weak am I? Soft and stupid," he panted, trying to keep a space clear of the fog of his arousal. But it was so hard – _he_ was hard, twitching with need – and she was spread under him, warm and wriggling and brushing his freed length.

He felt choked words collect in her throat. Morrigan's hands grasped his fingers as if to pry them loose, but her dark eyes glittered with hunger and triumph.

She wasn't fighting him. Not like he wanted. No, she was still taunting, still sneering, still –

Clarity and control crumbled, and something leashed deep within him loosed and fed.

Arrogant (stallion) bitch make her beg cower need to see her fear (scream) torment like his

Alistair snarled as he stood, lifting her by the throat, then rammed and pinned her with his bulk against a wall. Hot skin branded his even through thin cloth. He could smell her, the tangy heady scent driving him mad, goading him to lick the valley of her breasts just below. The witch moaned and raised clawing fingers that he thwarted with a snatch of his hand. "You know what they told me, when I first went to the Tower?"

Beneath him trapped (feather) powerless he could (rip) break her yes show her

The Templar crushed her wrists in a vise grip as he wrenched her arms up and brought his lips to brush her ear. "'Leave mercy behind. Sympathy will only be turned against you.'" Morrigan struggled not to shiver and gasp, but each stifled movement jolted straight to the part of him sandwiched between them. With his thigh Alistair forced her legs apart and felt the dampness soaking through her smallclothes. Now, now her expression was open and fearful.

Wanton whore all (salty) his so (liquid) wet she wants give it not yet

His mouth twisted in a leering smirk. "I thought, no, we all need some kindness." Alistair released her neck to stroke a cheek. Her head freed, the witch darted her face forward to bite his, and the caress snapped into a backhanded strike that opened a cut on her lip.

Slick (sundew) skin sliding (sweet) take her now soon

He laughed. "But they were right. You're right. I'm nothing but a fool." He shifted back, and with his free hand tore away her skirt and smalls, then yanked on her hips and the scrap of cloth around her chest to wrest her to the ground. She landed on her back, stunned and helpless, and he smothered her with his weight.

"You want power? Then try and take it."

Any restraint Alistair had been exercising fled as he tore into her with his mouth and hands, biting, pawing, and bruising her neck and breasts and ass. Morrigan writhed and mewled, eyes wide and desperate. If he knew how to torture her more he would, but he could only trap her hips as she wriggled and sought escape and relief.

An idea surfaced. He ran searching fingers down her wet furrow, and she arched, offering marked breasts for his nose and mouth to devour. Alistair probed for a while, tracing her dripping folds, and when he found a hard nub, she gasped and bucked, a note of pleasure underlining her voice. "Like that, do you?" She squirmed trying to get his fingers where she wanted them, but he took his hand away, instead sliding his body along hers until that slick warmth was gliding along him. Fire surged through his veins and rushed out in a shuddering groan. If the witch couldn't take much more, neither could he, and he lined up and drove into her with a sudden, stretching thrust.

Stars clouded his sight as he nearly came undone. She was tight, tight and hot, and never had he imagined anything so fantastic. At the edge of his awareness he heard Morrigan cry out, felt her rise to meet him. Alistair paused a moment, his hands clamping her still as he tried to collect himself. He slid out, and when he slammed back in, the witch shuddered around him, wrapping legs around his waist and changing the angle of her hips that he was now buried even more deeply.

He flicked his eyes up to her face. _Please_ , she mouthed, and at the sight of her open expression he gave in, setting a bruising pace while Morrigan clawed at his chest, moaning and cursing, every snap and twist of hips unraveling his mind.

And behind the growing need, burning in his belly until he all could think and do was to drive faster and harder into that closeness so warm and so good

There on his tongue –

Salt water and sand

A stallion screams in the rut

Soft wings in a frantic dance

Sweet stink of sundew

This magic he didn't realize when had she – _Don't stop Alistair_ –

Blood roaring that hot tightness clenching and rippling – _Alistair_ – then he was swelling inside her spilling into arching shouting falling

A _shriek_

So loud on his tongue, never so loud in all his life he swore it tore a bloody gash

Mother dies in labor Raptor dives Dragonfire scorches

At the same instant _nothing_ , aching absence crushing lungs, where a heartbeat ago there had been Morrigan, enveloping and saturating every sense.

Scalding power seized him and flung him onto his back. From above spilled sharply choked-off sobs.

"You foolish girl."

Eyes closed, Alistair lay limp and dazed as a dropped marionette. He felt movement nearby, but it was stiff and resistant, not the smooth grace that had drawn his gaze.

"Mother – "

"Silence!" Morrigan gave a strangled noise. "You failed to set aside yourself in the rite, and now we stand on the edge of a knife." A slap rang through the hut. "But you may yet salvage this. Remember your lesson, and go. The Wardens approach their ruined hold even now."

Feet scratched earth as they regained purchase, and the door creaked as the girl left.

"As for you, young man…" Strings jerked taut and yanked him upright and seeing. The old witch peered into Alistair's face with narrowed eyes. "You could have enjoyed a painless tune had the girl stayed in key, but no matter. It will have to be enough." She brought an icy hand to his brow. Fire and wind swirled and coursed along arteries and nerves. His head snapped back as something tore from his mouth, and then the hut went white.


	7. Chapter 7

Alistair felt like he'd been tossed into the middle of the road before Denerim's Great Gate. On Market Day, no less. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

What in the Black City, Void, and beyond had just happened? His last clear memory was of polishing off a bowl of stew…

He looked around then down. Oh Maker, he was naked. Good thing no one else was in this cottage. A jumble of effects and an open pack lay spread before the dying fire. Alistair rifled through them for clothes, none of them his, and dressed. The tunic was a bit tight in the shoulders, and the trousers ended well above his ankles, but they were clean. Someone had wiped down his armor, boots, and weapons, though he couldn't find his gambeson. Just as well; it had gotten soaked in blood and would have been burnt eventually.

Alistair was lacing his boots when he heard muffled voices through the closed door. Curious, he peeked outside.

"– right do you have to take Grey Warden property? I demand you hand over the treaties immediately!"

Morrigan, her mother, and four people whose faces he couldn't see in the waning light stood absorbed in a heated exchange. He stepped out for a closer look. That tall angry woman sounded familiar… Ser Erhyn?

The old witch crossed her arms. "Temper, young woman. You'd best keep a leash on your tongue. Graciousness will always serve you better than insolence."

"Know that you speak to a Templar and a Warden, apostate hag. I will not ask again." The warrior placed a hand on the pommel of her sword. "Give me the treaties. Now."

"Erhyn, maybe you shouldn't –" Alistair recognized the girl's voice and bearing: She was the apprentice they were always ribbing Cullen about in the barracks. What was her name? Salla, Sonna?

"Quiet, mage." Ser Erhyn turned to a dark-haired man who had opened his mouth to speak. "You as well, thief."

"I didn't say nothin'!" the man protested.

"You were about to."

Morrigan's mother strode between them. "Enough. Here are your treaties. And before you begin barking again, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these."

"You – !"

The Circle mage took a leather case from the old woman and curtsied. "Thank you for returning them. We are grateful for your assistance."

"Now there's a smart girl. With such manners, too! They're always in the last place you look. Like stockings!" Only the old witch chuckled at the joke. Then she turned to Alistair, who had been watching a few paces away in the deepening shadows. "Ah, but I see our other guest has emerged. Perhaps we should make introductions?"

Six faces looked his way. Morrigan's eyes caught the orange-red sunlight peeking through the trees as she shifted her head.

_Molten gold burning_

Alistair stumbled back and almost tripped over a rotten log.

"Ser Alistair? How are you here? Are you alright? Maker, you're white as a sheet." The apprentice reached for his shoulder to steady him, but Alistair shied away, shaking his head clear. What had just happened?

"I – I'm fine. Thank you. I – "

" _Ser_ Alistair? So they finally made you take your vows." The ex-Templar glared at the elder apostate. "What did you do to him?"

The old woman was all innocence. "Why, I found him dying in the Wilds and took him in, healed his wounds. See, he is unharmed."

Ser Erhyn's scowl deepened. "I don't believe you."

"It's true," Alistair confirmed. "Really, I'm alright. I was with three others at Jogby's camp, and we were ambushed by darkspawn. If it weren't for, for Morrigan, and her mother, I'd be dead too." His uncertain eyes flicked over to the younger witch, who turned away in haste, pursing her lips.

_Bruising tongue choking_

Alistair doubled over, nausea rising in his throat. What was wrong with him? Where were these intrusions coming from?

"You say you're well, but you sure don't look it, ser knight," said the thief. "Maybe you'd best come with us?" He offered a friendly arm up.

The shaky Templar gratefully grasped it. "Th-thank you. I think I will."

"Name's Daveth, by the way." He waved his other arm around. "This doughty fellow here's Ser Jory, knight of Redcliffe. I take it you know the lady mage and our fair leader?"

"Ser Erhyn I remember. You won that tournament in Denerim. But you… "

Alistair grew cold looking at the Circle mage, despite her concerned smile. But he knew her, nothing to be worried about here. He must be shivering from the evening chill. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name. The knight-captain never lets me stay for long…"

Her smile widened into a wry grin but failed to warm him. "I've noticed. Tarven's an ass." She ignored Erhyn's frown. "To refresh your memory, I'm Sanna, Sanna Amell. It's too bad you weren't around the Tower more. You were one of the few who didn't look at us like we'd explode into frogs at any moment.

"Not that it matters for me, now. I'm not with the Circle anymore. Jory, Daveth, and I are all Grey Warden recruits, and Warden Erhyn's been leading us to hunt darkspawn and dusty scrolls."

Recruits? "But… you're an apprentice! And why would the knight-commander let you out without more Templars?"

Sanna raised an eyebrow and studied Alistair as her expression clouded. "I went through my Harrowing, and a few other things, while you were gone. It's a long story."

"Not that I mind idle chatter," interrupted Morrigan with a pointed look at Sanna, "but you have what you came for, and even found an old acquaintance. Time for you to go, then."

"Do not be ridiculous, girl! These are your guests!" said her mother. "At least help this young man gather his things."

Morrigan sighed. "Very well. Follow me, Alistair." The Templar swallowed a ball of nerves when she said his name. "The rest of you may wait here. Then I will show you out of the woods." She started towards the hut, and as he turned to follow suit, Alistair could have sworn he saw something like unease ripple across the old witch's face.

Inside, the two of them were quiet as they crouched and arranged his belongings inside the pack. Alistair didn't dare look directly at Morrigan, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her doing the same with him.

She was handing him a vambrace when their fingers brushed.

_Nails scraping skin_

Woman screaming in childbirth

Blood magic? No, it couldn't have been –

He snatched his hand back as a startled Morrigan dropped the piece of armor. "Alistair, I –"

"Don't!" he shouted. "Don't say another word! What – whatever happened, I don't want to talk about it. Ever." He swung his face towards the fire. "In fact, it'd be best if you didn't talk to me at all."

A long silence strained between them. "I will respect your wishes, then." She reached to pick up the vambrace and placed it at his side, then knelt towards him, trying to catch his eye. Alistair refused to meet her gaze. "If I may – "

"If it's worth hearing, let's have it."

"I…" The witch wavered. "Nevermind. 'Twas only foolishness."

"Then keep it to yourself. If you'll allow me, I can finish packing on my own."

Morrigan stood rigid for a moment, then left without another word.

Alistair released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and crammed the rest of his things into the pack. The cuirass wasn't going to fit in there, but he couldn't wear it and have it chafe and pinch the whole walk out of the forest, nor did he have a proper swordbelt. He was going to have his hands full, holding sword and shield and chestpiece, but with four, no, five other people, and two mages to boot, he'd be safe enough, right?

For some reason he wasn't reassured, especially when thinking about the mages.

The moon shone red above the trees when he rejoined the group. "I'm ready," Alistair said, "although… Could I borrow a cloak from someone? Most of my things were… lost." His teeth chattered as a frigid wind howled from the south.

"Sure," Sanna piped cheerfully. "I don't really need mine, being a primal mage. I'll keep warm with a small fire spell." She moved to strip her cloak.

Alistair stepped away from her. "No!" he said a bit too loudly, then saw her questioning gaze and cringed. "I – Sorry, I just… It just wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me, taking a cloak from a lady. That's all. Really. I didn't mean to offend."

"What our lady mage said made sense, but you're right, ser knight. Here, have mine." Daveth handed his over. "Jory, give me yours."

"What? You cheeky – !" Jory sputtered. "If I'd wanted to lend my cloak I'd 've –"

"Jory, shut up and give Daveth your cloak. You can stand a little cold, can't you?" Erhyn sneered.

"I – Fine." He huffed as the former thief grinned. "Now can we be off? We've gotten everything Duncan asked of us."

Alistair perked up at the name. "Duncan?"

"Commander of the Fereldan Wardens. Not that there's many of us to command," Erhyn answered. "Come on, you louts. Morrigan, if you will?"

The witch glided past them and started for the woods. Sanna looked up at Alistair, her eyes a shining invitation, but he hung back.

"I'll just… stay in the middle, if that's okay. So you don't have to worry about me, being unarmored and all. You go on in front, with Erhyn."

Sanna looked disappointed but strode ahead. As she went by, he thought he heard her mutter, "Just my luck. Another paranoid Templar following me around."

Alistair sighed, and trudged once more into the wilds.


End file.
